He sounded so smug about it, so carelessly confident that Christy wanted to smack him. She had gone and busted her backside, that same backside he had just so familiarly referred to, to win the Bornowski case, and he’d reached out with ease and plucked it from her grasp. It was an outcome that still rankled.
McFarland had a pair of black eyebrows, thick ones that seemed to express his moods. Right now they were lifted in amusement. “Yeah, I know,” he said, reading her thoughts, “you’re wondering how I managed to catch up with little Brenda when you thought you’d left me in the dust back on Canal. It’s called being resourceful—like slipping a couple of twenties to the subject’s best friend beforehand to let you know by cell phone where she’s planning to wind up. Hey, don’t scowl at me like that. All’s fair in love and private investigation.”
“Which still doesn’t explain what you’re doing out here.”
“Oh, didn’t I say?” He leaned negligently against one of the attic’s supporting posts. “See, my operative wasn’t alone. He’d brought Monica Claiborne with him to the landing. She wanted to speak with me before she went on to meet her brother-in-law.”
Oh, no, Christy thought with a sinking heart, knowing what was coming.
“Seems Monica isn’t satisfied with what the cops are doing to find her sister’s killer. And since, unlike her brother-in-law, she can afford to hire the best—that’s me and my agency—she asked me to look into it.”
It was worse than Christy imagined, because Monica must have told McFarland that Glenn meant to hire her for the same purpose.
He smiled that odious smile again. “News travels fast, huh? Hey, take it easy. Way you’re reeling, you’ll be sliding into that hole again.”
Christy couldn’t stand it. She positively could not stand it. This case was vital to her, probably her last chance to survive as a P.I. in her own right, and now here was Dallas McFarland again threatening to mess it up for her. Well, not if she could help it.
Recovering her gun and her bag from the floor, clutching them against her breasts, she fired off a livid, “I can’t stop you from working for Monica Claiborne, but you keep away from me and my client or I’ll report you to the licensing board for unethical practices! I swear I will!”
“Uh, actually, I was sort of thinking—”
“Don’t!”
Pushing past him, she fled down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor. McFarland was right behind her, as persistent as a dog barking up a tree. And equally annoying.
“I don’t know what you’re so mad about. If I hadn’t come out here, just like you did, to take a look at the scene of Laura Hollister’s death, where would you be? Still hanging from that gas pipe, right?”
Christy rushed on, not answering him.
“It’s the truth, isn’t it? So the least you could do—” He followed her through the gap in the boards and out into the yard. “—the least you could do is listen to me.”
Ignoring him, she headed for her car under the oaks. He was still nipping at her heels.
“Look, grits, slow down long enough to hear me—”
This time she stopped, rounding on him so swiftly he almost collided with her. “What did you just call me?”
He backed up a safe distance away from her, his hands raised in mock innocence. “Hey, it’s a compliment. Grits is one of my favorite foods. Really.”
“Is it? Well, that’s one Southern dish I can do without.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing. With a little honey on top, it’s downright irresistible.” There went those eyebrows again, registering something far too suggestive.
“I’ll bet.”
Swinging away from him, she went on to her car. It was no longer alone under the oaks. McFarland’s car was parked beside it. And wouldn’t you know it would be a sleek, cream-colored convertible just reeking of success, making her own old red Escort look all the more inadequate by comparison.
Well, so what? It was dependable enough to take her out of here and away from McFarland, providing she could find the keys. Naturally, she couldn’t. She had to stand there digging through all the junk in her bag while McFarland caught up with her. Trapped. Forced to listen to him as he leaned his rangy, tempting frame against the side of her car.
“Got a proposition for you, grits. Oh, you’re gonna love it.”
He spoke in a lazy, deep-voiced drawl, the country-boy variety. She suspected it wasn’t altogether genuine and wondered how many women had been dumb enough to fall for it.
“What I was thinking,” he went on, “is that you and I could work together on this case.”
Now that took her attention away from her frantic search for the car keys. Boy, did it ever! She lifted her head and stared at him, not believing what she was hearing. Somebody here had just lost his mind, and she didn’t think it was her.
“I can see by the way that sweet little nose of yours is twitching that you’re just a tad upset by the notion. But think about it. Even if we do have separate clients, we’re after the same thing, aren’t we? The truth behind Laura Hollister’s murder. So why not join forces and share our efforts? Make sense?”
“About as much sense as a cottonmouth getting cozy with a bunny rabbit.” As she went on staring at him, Christy realized there was something intense behind this casual offer of his. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Well, sure.”
“It’s never going to happen, McFarland. And why would an exalted P.I. like you, want it to happen when you know how I feel about you? Which, in case you’ve been wondering, isn’t good. Besides—and correct me if I’m wrong—your opinion of me and my agency is—” She broke off with another sudden realization. “Oh, I get it. I’m a direct pipeline to the chief suspect. You want easy access to any privileged information my client might share with me. And that’s about as underhanded as slipping a pair of twenties to Brenda Bornowski’s best friend.”
“Why, when I’d be sharing anything Monica Claiborne knows with you?”
“I’ll collect my own information, thank you. And move aside so I can get out of here.” She had found her car keys, and now all she wanted was to put Dallas McFarland behind her. Far behind her.
“Sure you won’t reconsider?” He stepped away from the Escort. “It would be an opportunity for you to work with an experienced P.I. Just think of how much you could learn.”
There was one thing she had to say about this man, Christy thought, opening her car door and sliding in behind the wheel. He didn’t lack ego or tenacity. As she fumbled with her seat belt, he poked his head through the open window of the driver’s door.
“Okay, so you’re going to solve this murder all on your own. But did you ever stop to think, grits, that the cops might be right and that Glenn Hollister did kill his wife?”
She turned the key in the ignition, started the car, and resisted the temptation to raise the window with his head in it. “Glenn is a decent, caring man, incapable of murder, and I’m going to prove that!”
“We’re sensitive about ol’ Glenn, are we? Interesting.”
Christy angrily tugged at the brim of her baseball cap and shoved the gear stick into Drive. Dallas McFarland leapt back from the window just in time to save himself from being decapitated as she sped away from the oak grove.
On the first half of the drive back to New Orleans, Christy fumed. On the second half she cooled down and thought about McFarland’s reasons for wanting to work with her. And by the time she reached the city, she decided there